Becoming Lionel
by H-Maude
Summary: Unwittingly forced into candidacy at Ista Weyr, Cadman meets L'nel, a self-professed narcissist, hedonist, and misogynist. As their relationship deepens, they are forced to confront their preexisting notions about the world, themselves, and each other.
1. Prologue

Dragonriders of Pern is the intellectual property of Anne McCaffrey.

Becoming Lionel

I suppose in late life, people tend to turn serenely contemplative, content to sit for hours at a time while staring at the sea and dreaming. At any rate, it happens to be the case for me, which says a lot—I suppose. While doing so, I always wonder about two things: what the people around me think I'm dreaming of, and what I plan on dreaming of. Naturally, thinking about what other people are thinking about isn't particularly interesting and what I plan on never comes up, so instead, I dream elsewhere, mostly of the sea and what it brings to mind.

So I dream about love.

At this time of year, all of Ista Hold is the faint yellow of a fellis' bloom; the sun is that bright. They've put me on a ledge with a view, and from here, the people appear as dark spots against an otherwise perfectly smooth expanse. It stretches from one horizon to the next with brief tautening wrinkles lining the edges like the skin that forms on the surface of warm milk. They're busy preparing for the Turnover Gather, not that I've ever puzzled out the significance of celebrating an end. They seem to know, at the very least, and that says a lot—I suppose. As for me, it is perhaps that with each Turn that passes, it brings me a Turn closer, a Turn closer to a reunion that I can't begin to understand the significance of.

A green dragon lands on my ledge. They're arriving already; perhaps the time has already come? She is old, but buoyant, and irritatingly so. She nudges my hand, and the scent of her is uncanny, as is the sound of whining in her throat. The feel of her graying ridge, the rumbling, the glow of her whirling blue eye—they suffuse my person, filling it with comforting warmth that stings like ocean waves, pestering old wounds, and making me remember.

"Will he be here today, Amaranth?"

She nuzzles my hand for more scratching.


	2. Chapter 1

7.5.16

Youth is a gift. It is ironic that by the time one is finally able to realize that that happens to be the case, one is already too old to enjoy it, and finds themselves spending the rest of their time observing their depth of loss. Furthermore, when one is in possession of it, one only dreams of growing out of it; such was the case for me.

Chauvinism and nostalgia aside, an interment at Keroon is nothing to scoff at. Even now, surrounded by what is identified by it seas, I can't help but see the slow sway of wheat heads heavy with seed in the movement of the waves. Plunging deeply into the stalks with Coralin, hiding from father and Kashman, their surprise as I resurface—_Got you good!—_and the deep grooves of the crèche-worker's forehead as she dabs coal oil onto the scratches—

Being the youngest out of nine sons, it was the common consensus that I would make nothing out of my life. The most minor cothold having been parceled out long before my birth, it was a fair enough assessment, and one that I worked frantically at affirming during my first twelve Turns. There was no limit on my mischief, my father would say, sometimes with amusement and at other times with the same tight-lipped look as my mother when one of us fell ill from eating too much raw sweetroot. One moment where it happened to be the former was after a prank Coralin and I played on our resident harper. He had fallen asleep after setting us to memorize Ista's geography, the one ballad that goes "Ocean Ista, bordered by Fort / North is Igen and west, Keroon," and so on and so forth; I can never recall things I didn't learn in the first place.

During wintertime, the only season where we weren't expected to be in the fields, the plain stood barren. From the angle of our tutoring room, we liked to pretend that the crackling frost adorning the tufts of wild grass were clumps of snow; however, the boredom of that day was too much for fantasy. The last log on the grate broke in half with a hollow _tok_, illuminating the shadow of Coralin's hands as she wrote the lines over and over again. Their plumpness and youth excluded her from the circle of women at their needlework, consigning her to an education that would certainly later be a detriment when marriage was to be considered. And there I was, dozing and about to join the harper in his slumber. That was when she suggested we write our own verses to the tune to pass the time.

"But you'll get an awful whipping."

"Pshaw. I bet Harper Gessick hits lighter than you."

Hiding our snickers under our thickly sleeved forearms, we got to composing.

I can remember the look of unalloyed horror on the harper's face and my sister's cheeks swollen like overripe redfruit . Afterwards, I received the worst switching of my life, and he was dismissed shortly after. At supper that night, I brandished the shallow welts like battle-won Threadscore, and the glory of that day, my father's laughter, the steward's appraising look, Kashman's thump on my shoulder along with the poem I composed still sustain me to this day:

"Ocean Ista, fairest in a Fall,  
>Threads squirming in the sea,<br>Drown the fish and scorch the greens,  
>That's a 'rider's life eternally."<p>

And then the dragons came.


End file.
